Funny Thing About Rhyme...

... like many apparently simple things in life, there's a lot more to it than meets the eye. Virtually every writer, whether poet, novelist, essayist or journalist, has likely toyed with rhyme at one time or another; most of the time not giving it a second thought beyond its schoolish fun. After all, it's not often we hear rhyme described as fascinating in its complexity, right?

What brings many, myself included, to rhyme is more of a stumbling headlong into the form because of its quirkiness and playfulness. After all, who hasn't recited "Roses Are Red" in the original or even written a knock-off? When I was growing up as an Air Force brat, a favorite was:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
You've got a shape,
Like a B-52.

It's hard not to love the romantic sentiment in that short verse written to my first girlfriend on Valentines Day. And what's not to like about its same sounding endings? Not to mention, it's got a bit of a beat. That rendering in rhyme was in about the fourth grade as I recall, when the massive B-52 jet bomber was becoming a household word on Air Force bases around the country.

Regretably, I can't claim to be the orignal author as most boys in my class were writing and reciting that little ditty ad infinitum at the time. Our teachers must have had the patience of Job. I'm certain Shakespeare thought the same thing about the beauty and functionality of rhyme, although perhaps fleetingly, as he added a rhyming couplet to the end of many of the acts and scenes in his plays.

So, let's get serious. You don't have to look very far to learn rhyme has a long history and is complex beyond all appearances. Google is loaded with what could be a literary googol of citations about rhyme. If you go there, I would plan to linger. For example, did you know...

* the first recorded (still surviving) rhyme was written in China in the tenth century BC?
* rhyme is found in the Koran and in the Bible.
* even the Greeks are known to have messed around with rhyme back in the day.
* rhyme made its appearance in Europe well before the 7th century by which time the Irish were using it extensively?
* rhyme started replacing alliteration (more on that in another post) as a preferred poetic form back in 14th century Europe?

And here are just a few of its many forms:

* Rhymes can be viewed generally or specifically. General rhymes have similar sounding words and may give a verse a sense of form. But they may not typically be regarded as rhyming in a strict way. The terms "near rhyme" (king-daring) or "forced rhyme" (noun-found) come to mind.

* On the other hand, rhymes in a specific sense are often referred to as perfect rhymes (see the B-52 above).

* Perfect Rhyme: Words in which the vowel sounds are exactly the same, whether spelled the same way or differently---the final stressed vowel sound (and the sounds that follow that vowel sound) are key, such as say-bay, dolt-bolt, good-would, shopping-hopping, locket-pocket.

* Perfect rhymes can be broken down further based on the number of rhyming syllables in the rhyming words.

* Of course, if there are perfect rhymes, there must be imperfect rhymes, also termed "near rhymes", already noted.

* Based on the location of the final stressed syllable in rhyming words, the rhyme can be classified as masculine, feminine or dactylic. (stay tuned next week).

* There can be rhyme which uses the same vowels (a characteristic known as "assonance") or the same consonants (known oddly enough as "consonance").

* There are also semirhymes where one word in the rhyming set has an extra syllable, not to mention half rhymes, pararhymes, syllabic rhymes, punning rhymes (where the words carry a very intentional and droll meaning), eye rhymes, tail rhymes, mind rhymes and holorhymes, just to name a few.

This list is far from exhaustive and that's just in English. Rhyming forms also vary based on the language in which they are written. Lost in translation doesn't even begin to cover it.

You can probably tell where this is going. First, there's no way to cover everything about rhyme in a single post. And second, because there's no way to cover it all in a single post, my new mission in life is to blog the socks off rhyme---to dignify it beyond doggerel; to lift it up as an art form; to celebrate its place in history; nay, to salute rhymers as risk takers in the face of often withering prosaic criticism.

So, take heart, rhymers. This is our time---and apparently it has been since about the 12th century. Who knew?

More to come....

"Got URL?"The Worry and Wonder Of Websites

If you have a website, you probably struggled through its birthing process from concept to reality. You can take comfort that you aren't alone. Your pain is felt by many, myself included, agonizing over such questions as: What design should I use? Should I use a template or should I go with code (.html, that is) and carve out my own layout? After all, there's something to be said about being the master of my own destiny even if it is with baling wire and bubble gum. Then again, maybe I should just hire it all out. How much could it cost anyway for the basics about who I am and what I'm peddling? And what's all this fuss I hear about content anyway?

These are just a few of the questions facing those pursuing an identity on the worldwide web. Consider for a moment what drove your website decisions about both the design and content? Did you hire a website designer to help chart your course in cyber space? Whether "designed" or home grown, to what extent was the cost a factor in your website decisions? Either way, are you satisfied with the outcome? And if you had it to do over again, would you follow the same path? What would you do differently? I'll start out. Feel free to chime in about your own experience.

Relatively soon after I got into the writing game (meaning at the point when my mom told everyone from her beautician to the pharmacist that I was writing poetry), I began to feel the push toward having a website. Actually, it was more like standing on the edge of Niagra Falls with a cheering crowd behind me yelling, "you don't need no stinking barrel!" Way back in those days (meaning about four years ago), I knew nothing about websites or how to design them; or, truthfully, what to put on them.

I began with a very basic (we're talking two tin cans and a string here) "website" offered by AOL using their "AOL hometown" template. My content was minimal--mostly a little background information about me (the poet, remember?) plus what I was working on currently and a list of two poems I had published so far. The AOL template offered four or five colors, a few "header" themes and about three text boxes to key free-form text into.

Needless to say, it was a modest website. But when I finished, I thought I had indeed arrived in the cyber world. The only problem, no one knew I was there which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing. But at least if someone asked me, I could beam with pride (OK and maybe a little smugness) and give them my URL. Hey, I was nothing if not pure coolness. I mean, I could totally imagine myself in a TV ad: "Got URL?" "Well, duh! Yeah, I got URL!"

Oh, and did I mention my URL was 43 characters long and included most of the letters in the English alphabet, three carefully placed Chinese characters, half the symbols across the top of the keyboard and six forward (not backward) slashes. Come to think of it, the URL actually looked a lot like the inside of those cartoon bubbles when the speaker is really, really mad.

And I'm sure it was for security reasons that whatever was keyed into the URL line could not be copied and pasted in the event of a keying error. That is, it had to be totally rekeyed from the beginning. Needless to say, I didn't have a lot of visitors to my website.

Yet, imagine my panic when about two years later, AOL announced via message that they would be eliminating their "website" feature in 30 days. Assuming ALL CAPS meant they were serious, I immediately followed their suggestion to save off my content, which I dutifully did in a Word file (with a hardcopy backup of course). Then, I sat site-less for nearly a month until I mentioned my dilemma to a cyber-savvy friend.

With great patience and forebearing (both biblical concepts), he showed me the basics of website design using .html code. I must say, after mastering my AOL URL, I actually found .html fairly easy. He also talked me through the drafting, editing, saving and uploading steps required to take my "design" from an idea sketched out on my local computer to an actual website on the worldwide web. And the rest, as they say, is history.

My website is still pretty basic but it is evolving, much as roads and highways evolved from horse trails and wagon paths. I figure I'm basically at the two-lane, gravel road stage, including the occasional one-lane bridge. I've heard there is something called "css" (cascading style sheets) out there. But I'm still a long way from taking my site from two-lanes to Interstate.

Feel free to check it out if you wish at http://www.billkirkwrites.com ---which is, by the way, a URL I can actually remember. Any and all critical comments and suggestions are appreciated.

A Self-Portrait In Rhyme

Hard to believe the last two months have flown by with virtually no writing. But my blog stands before me with my last entry on October 2. So, before November totally escapes, I'm offering this short rhyme as a self-portrait. It will also be the Rhyme of the Month on my website for December if you care to drop by in a couple days. Cheers and Blessings.

A Self-Portrait
By Bill Kirk

What you sees is what you gets;
A happy life with no regrets.
S'ppose there could be one or two-
But hardly more than just a few.

There was that time I smoked a pack
Of Camels in the barn out back
At grandpa's farm-and I turned green.
But since then, I've been strictly clean.

And who knew sake mixed with beer,
Would make my vision so unclear?
Going down, it tasted fine.
But later? More like turpentine.

Once I bought some swampland, too.
What a deal! I had no clue.
At last, we sold it ten years later-
Never found that alligator.

Rubbed some blisters; skinned some knees.
Got stung by some wasps and bees.
Gained some wrinkles, lost some hair;
Won a few bets here and there.

Found true love along the way-
Thank my lucky stars each day.
A life well-lived without a care.
And blessings? Yes, at least my share-

What you sees is what you gets;
A happy life with no regrets.
S'ppose there could be one or two-
But hardly more than just a few.

It's Father's Day, What Can I Say?

“Dad, Can I Help?”
By Bill Kirk

The long weekend beckoned--
I’d written my list.
And I was quite sure
There was nothing I’d missed.

No yard work distractions,
No carpools to do.
The weekend was mine
Until I was through.

I had all my hardware
And lumber galore.
I’d work on the deck;
Replace an old door.

I set up my saw
And tested my drill.
With anticipation
I felt quite a thrill.

“No holding me back,”
I thought, a bit smug.
Then all of a sudden,
I felt a slight tug.

Stopping my work,
I turned with a glance
To see my small son
Grab the leg of my pants.

What could I do?
Did I have any choice,
When my little son asked
In his little boy voice?

“Dad, can I help?
I just need some glue
And maybe a nail,
Some wood and a screw.”

“I’ll be very careful
And do what you say.
I promise, I’ll try
To stay out of your way.”

I felt the deck slipping
Right out of my grasp.
The door would remain
On its very last gasp.

We built a small boat
With a deck and a sail
Out of two bits of wood,
Some string and a nail;

Then battled some pirates
And found chests of gold.
With each new adventure
A story was told.

We sawed and we hammered
Until we were done
With all of our work—
Like father, like son.

I never did finish
My list on that day,
Instead I spent time
With my son, just to play.

And those weekend projects?
They just had to wait.
For some life appointments,
A Dad can’t be late.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 28 - 30

At last, I'm caught up. Today's blog entry wraps up the April Poem A Day Challenge with the last three days of the month. This year the challenge seemed more difficult than in other years. There was more of a feeling of being disconnected with the topics and even with the writing of poems.

Looking back on the month, the most I am taking from the effort this time around is that I now have 30 poems to play with. Some are not bad and many others clearly need attention---maybe even a good toss in the round file. But in the end, that's not a bad starting point. So, herewith are the final three days of the month and the poetry challenge for 2011 is a wrap.

April 28—Write a "the world without something else" poem. If you remember on Day 3, I had everyone write a "the world without me" poem. This prompt imagines the world without something else, whether a person, place, thing, etc.

The World Without Nature’s Wrath
By Bill Kirk

The world without tornadoes—
Would it be a better place?
Or would the absence of whirling storms
Be replaced with something worse?
Were hurricanes off the map,
Would the oceans be as rich,
Left un-recharged by surface turbulence
Which feeds the depths below?
And what of quakes and volcanoes,
Tsunamis, cyclones and monsoons
That shake the very foundations of our
Puny “indestructible” creations?
Would we end those cataclysms at our own peril,
Knowing full well Mother Nature’s wrath
Is key to our long term survival?
Perhaps our best course is to
Celebrate our good fortune in the moment,
And keep our heads down when
Nature’s destructive power makes its
Inevitable mid-course corrections
In ways we can’t imagine and
In hopes we’ll never see it—
Yet knowing that we will.


April 29—For today's prompt, write an ode. I'm thinking of odes in the more contemporary sense of being a praise poem, though if people want to get all old school with it, then that's fine too.

(Note from http://www.library.thinkquest.org : An ode is a poem that is written for an occasion or on a particular subject. They are usually dignified and more serious as a form than other forms of poetry…. There are several versions and differing opinions on what the rhyme form for an ode should be.)

Ode To Retirement
By Bill Kirk

Oh, retirement,
Where is thy sting?
Wouldn’t the end of the days
Of tireless working,
To fatten wallets growning thin
And thinner still
Be cause for celebration?

At long last there is no more
Need to feed the endless
Wanting and needing of stuff,
Satisfied only by
Buying and consuming.
These things of times past
Matter no more when we
Walk through the door
Of the pensioning life.

Our day in the sun
Has finally come
And we are free from the
Sting of mortgaging and
Debting for a living.

With the blessings of
Disappearing debt,
Might we not have
A bit more ching-ching
Than we thought we had
To do a little shopping?
Oh, retirement, there is no sting!
With a little prudent planning,
The blinging life survives—
It’s just not quite so demanding.


April 30—For today's prompt, write an "after leaving here" poem. This poem could be about leaving an actual place, a relationship, or even this challenge.

Life After Leaving Here
By Bill Kirk

How a propos, a leaving poem.
For after 26 years in one house,
We are now seriously contemplating
Leaving it behind for another life.
Oh, sure, it may take us a while.
After all, you don’t just up and
Pack out one day like pioneers
Who gathered all their possessions
Into a Conestoga bound for parts west—
The promised land, or so they used to say.

But in a way, there will be
A modern-day covered wagon or two.
That’s right, a brightly labeled moving truck,
Packed to the top with as many of our
Earthly possessions as we think will fit
In the smaller space of our new digs.
Instead we’ll be heading eastward
In stages as we unhitch ourselves
From a quarter century in California
And replant ourselves in Florida.
Gone will be the Sierra Nevada trails,
The Central Valley fog and bounty
And the chilly Northern California Coast.

At long last, the waterfront dream
Will be realized as we trade
Earthquakes for hurricanes
And brilliant snow for
Equally brilliant white quartz
In the Gulf of Mexico on a
Small patch of beach facing south
Across the Inter Coastal Waterway
From several miles of undeveloped beach
On the Okaloosa Island National Seashore.

Here’s hoping for the best that a
Bold move will bring in our
Pursuit of happiness as we
Change the venue of the pursuit
And maybe the nature of the quest.
When all is said and done,
It’s really just all about real estate.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 25 - 27

April 25—Write a falling poem. This could be about the physical act of falling (like someone tying your shoelaces together), or it could be symbolic falling (such as falling in love).

Falling
By Bill Kirk

When
I was
A kid,
I used
To dream
About falling.

The scene had a
Very geometric quality to it—
Dark, with just enough light
To discern a series of
Circular holes appearing
In rapid succession
On the ground in front of me.

There I was,
Running and jumping
From one spot to another
To avoid falling
Into the holes—
Almost as if
Some kind of
Giant cookie-cutter
Was imprinting holes
As fast as
I could jump
Ahead of them,
Anticipating
The next safe spot.
Breathing between jumps,
I watched as the hole maker
Left just enough
curved and roughly
Diamond-shaped
Space in between circles
For my feet to safely land.

Imagine, if you will, Jimmy Durante
Signing off his show.
Remember how he would
Stand beneath the street light
To bid his audience farewell—
All black and white, of course,
As he walked away after saying,
“Goodnight, Mrs. Mcgillocuttie.”

I can’t be sure if it were true.
But in my mind’s eye,
A trail of street lights would
Appear at his feet as he
Walked away into the darkness.
And I carried those early
Black and white TV images with me;
My dreams imbued with
A perpetual falling theme.
Yet somehow,
I always
Managed
To avoid
The holes,
Landing
Safely on
Solid
Ground.

Is
That
Weird?
Indeed.


April 26—Today is the final "Two for Tuesday" prompt(s) of the month:
1. Write a leader poem.
2. Write a follower poem.
I'll leave it up to you to decide what a leader or follower poem might be. You can either lead the way in figuring that out, or follow the lead of another.

Writers As Leaders
By Bill Kirk

Any writer
Must a leader be,
Wouldn’t you say?
For doesn’t the
Writing of a thing
Tend to push it along
To its conclusion,
Either natural or forced?

From its start,
Through its middle
And right on to
Its very end,
Whether
A story or
A treatise or
A search for meaning,
The writer leads
The way with words
As the tools of his trade.

That’s not to say
Some things may
Never quite seem
To reach
Their end.
But given
Enough time,
Enough study,
Enough reflection;
An end should certainly
Begin to take form.

Stated simply, then,
The writer’s job
Is to stretch
The idea,
The thought
The concept,
The story,
Until it is within reach,
Then pull it all
Fully into the
Imaginative grasp
Of the reader.


April 27—For today's prompt, take the phrase "In the (blank) of (blank)," replace the blanks with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

In The Blink Of An Eye
By Bill Kirk

It was just a downward glance
At the phone in my lap—
The insistent ring tone
Made me do it.
Who’s calling, anyway?

It took me a second,
As I tried to focus.
The abbreviated message
Trailed across the
Small LED-lit screen.

Quick glance up ahead—
OK. 100 feet. I’m good.
Damn! The light went off.
Where’s that reply button?
There, I can see it now—tap, tap, tap….
“hey wzup, dude. this trfik is kiln m….”

It was just a split second, really.
In the blink of an eye,
I was dead.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 20 - 24

Slowly catching up. Posted below are my five daily poems from April 20 through April 24. I'm already imagining the editing process on these poems. But for the time being, they will have to do. Consider them simply ideas captured---place holders awaiting final revision. Sometimes that's as good as it gets.


April 20—Write a message in a bottle poem. Imagine your poem is being rolled up and put in a bottle for someone to find and read.

To Whom It May Concern
By Bill Kirk

Hello out there—anyone.
This is my last recently emptied bottle.
I’ve been here a while—waiting.
The days I’ve counted number 173.
But I can’t be certain
I haven’t missed one or two.

Please hurry—well, at least
Get here as soon as you can.

I used to think everyone
Ought to have a chance
To be alone—solitary.
You know, to spend some quality time
Getting in touch with one’s self.
Been there. Done that.
No—Am here. Doing that.

Guess I can take that
Off my bucket list, right ahead of
“GET RESCUED.”

Please hurry—well, at least
Get here as soon as you can.


April 21—Write a second thoughts poem. You could have second thoughts about something you’ve done or thought in the past. You could write something about someone (or something else) having second thoughts. Or you could even take a poem you wrote earlier in the month and flip it in a new direction.

On Second Thought
By Bill Kirk

Second thoughts have pros and cons;
They have their goods and bads.
A second thought can save the day
Or turn your glads to sads.

Second thoughts for some are weak.
They say we hesitate—
As if allowing time to think
Suggests we’ll be too late.

Others say the best approach
Is leaving ample space,
For second thoughts to bounce around
And win the thinking race.

Just remember, if in doubt,
It’s wise to heed the id.
Its best advice? “On second thought,
Let’s not and say we did!”


April 22—Today is Good Friday and Earth Day. Write an “only one in the world” poem. This only one in the world might be a person, an animal, a place or an object. Think of someone or something else and write.

Earth As An “Only One”
By Bill Kirk

Granted, what I know
Has its limitations.
But wouldn’t you have to agree,
Earth in its unitary form is, indeed,
The only one of its kind in the world,
And that earth and the conditions
That make it possible,
Are universally singular?

In fact, how can it be any other way?
For nothing can be exactly
And precisely duplicated,
On earth or elsewhere.
So, everything
On the earth,
In the earth,
Of the earth and
Beyond the earth is
Totally,
Inexorably,
Unquestionably
Unique.
The End.


April 23—Write a quit doing what you’re doing poem. This could be about something you need to quit doing or that someone or something should quit doing.

Ode To Inertia
By Bill Kirk

Inertia is a funny thing,
Whether a body’s
At rest or in motion.
If inertia comes into play,
By its very nature,
It always involves
The quitting of some particular thing.

For example, overcoming
The inertia of running
Means you will slow down
And maybe stop.
Taking a nap? Time to
Wake up and move,
And so forth and so on….

Figurative inertia gets even better.
Movement, or lack of movement, notwithstanding,
That meal you are eating or
That game you are playing or
That dissertation you are writing or
That job you would just as soon not be doing
Will hopefully, eventually, end—
Either voluntarily or not.

If all things in life were unquitable,
What a boring life it would be.
So, if you don’t mind,
I will take my leave
And quit doing
What I’m doing
Until, that is,
Tomorrow….


April 24—Write a prayer poem Your prayer poem could be religious but it doesn’t have to be. It’s completely up to you what your poem is about.

What is Prayer?
By Bill Kirk

What is prayer
But a need, petitioned?
And a petition but a
Declared want?
It has been said,
“Waste not, want not.”
But might we not also say
“Want not, need not?”
After all, were there no needs,
Would there be any need to pray?
Hard to say.
And yet, prayers need not
Only be petitions for desires unmet.
What of the bounty
We have been granted—
Whether great or small?
Are not thanks for good fortune
A worthy subject of prayer?
And the need to express those thanks,
A need enough to pray?

Poem A Day Challenge for April 18 and 19

April 18—Take the phrase “Like (blank)”, replace the blank with a word or phrase and make the new phrase the title of the poem.

Like It Or Not
By Bill Kirk

Like it or not,
My memory is going.
I suppose the good news is
I realize it’s happening,
What with the misplaced
Keys, checkbooks, glasses
(Both of the eye and wine variety),
Not to mention the
Occasional article of clothing—
Nothing critical, mind you.
But you would think a
Baseball cap, gloves or a jacket
Would be relatively easy
To keep track of.
It’s not as if I haven’t worn
Either for six months.
Come to think of it,
I know exactly where
The stuff I used six months ago is.
What’s up with that, anyway?
I’m virtually certain the cause isn’t
Those two or three weekly glasses
Of Gnarly Head Old Vine Zin
I’ve been enjoying the past few years.
Guess it’s time to start working
Those crossword puzzles again.
Can anyone remember
A six-letter word for psycho-cyber storage
Of thousands of random factoids
Within seconds of instant recall?
Starts with “M” I think.


April 19—Two for Tuesday: Write a love poem or an anti-love poem. It doesn’t have to be romantic love, whether for or against it. But it could be.

On The Matter Of Abstractions
By Bill Kirk

Does devine love always fall
On the assumed right side
Of human righteousness?
Would God ever favor
Both sides of a fight?
Or always and only
One side or the other?
Does one people have
An exclusive claim?

Could there not be room for error
In our assumptions,
Especially when it comes to
Abstract concepts,
Beliefs and doctrines.

Perhaps He can and does do both
By allowing temporary advantage
To one side while knowing
There will be lessons in loss
As the wronged will at first be broken,
Then healed and strengthened
Sufficient to snatch victory in its time.

Yet how are we to know
Which side in any conflict
Is the absolute purveyor of good
And, therefore, utmost deserving
Of devine intervention?
Might perpetual discord
Be the natural product
Of man’s meddlesome nature,
To be rectified by
The gift of boundless love
Only beyond the pale?

During our earthbound life,
Could the old saw “might makes right”
Indeed make all the difference?

Do conceptual abstractions
Only have temporal value
In the feeble minds of humankind?

Do our human weaknesses
Doom us to perpetual strife,
With brief bouts of global rest,
Just long enough to regroup
For another round of
Self-justified righteous battle?

Does the capriciousness of
Where one is born determine
The national abstraction
To which we will devote our
Loyalty and love,
Defending it to the death?
Is it simply the side we’re on
That puts us in the right?

Should we even allow
Such questions
To trouble the soul,
Knowing the answers
Will always be
Just beyond our reach?

Perhaps pondering
Such abstractions
Is best left to others.
A warrior at the point of the sword
Has little time for such reflection.

May Is National Bar-B-Que Month

In Honor of National Bar-B-Que Month, here is a smalln offering for anyone who has had the misfortune of losing a hotdog to a roving rover on four legs. Hotdogs right off the grill are just so tempting to man or beast.

What Happened To My Hotdog?
By Bill Kirk
(Published in Wee Ones magazine in July/August 2005)

What happened to my hotdog?
Dad cooked it just for me.
And while it popped and sizzled,
I waited patiently.

When it was done, I fixed it,
So it would taste just right.
I set it on the table,
But now it’s out of sight.

I’m looking for my hotdog,
All plump inside its bun.
With ketchup and some mustard,
It glistened in the sun.

So, where’s my missing hotdog?
It’s nowhere to be found.
Is that a splat of ketchup,
I see there on the ground?

Now, something looks suspicious--
I think I see a trail.
Oh no! There goes my doggie.
He’s wagging his short tail.

“Hey, doggie, is that ketchup
And mustard on your nose?
I wonder how it got there--
By hotdog, you suppose?”

What happened to my hotdog?
I guess we know by now.
My doggie found my hotdog.
And made it doggie chow.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 13

April 13--For today's prompt, write a poem that remembers an old relationship. This relationship does not have to be romantic. It could be a departed (or estranged) family member, old friend, former teacher, or even just someone you briefly encountered. And the relationship may have even been one-sided or seemingly insignificant to the other person.

They Called Him Giuseppi
By Bill Kirk

They called him Giuseppi—
An old man by almost any standards.
His deeply tanned and
Weathered face and hands,
Left no doubt he had seen
More than his share of work
In the Mediterranean sun.

And yet, he had a certain
Athleticism about him, as if
He knew his way around
A cinder track and knew even far more
About the runners who raced there.

With a quiet nonchalance,
Giuseppi knowingly watched
From his perch high among
The irregular tiers of the
Hand cut stone benches.
His eyes were on a lone runner
Gliding around the ancient oval,
As so many thousands had done
Over countless centuries before.

The runner’s smooth stride hid almost any
Imperfection in his training regimen.
But Giuseppi sensed something out of kilter.
The straight-aways were fine—
Each footstrike found its intended mark
As a bowman would send
His arrow to its distant target.

But as the runner leaned into each curve,
Giuseppi could almost feel the
Imperceptible twinge himself.
There it was—a tightness in the calf
And an ever-so-slight pull in the hamstrings
Which flattened the heel—dulled the rebound.

Yet, the runner kept up his pace,
Through the long curve, once again
Pushing into the home stretch.
How many more repeats would he do?
Giuseppi knew he would disagree with
The runner’s automatic answer—
“Oggi, faccio altri dieci.”—“Ten more today,” he said,
Because that’s just what he did on Wednesdays.

“Basta! Oggi non più. Vieni qui!” Giuseppi beckoned
With his voice and a single palm-down gesture.
Giuseppi knew instinctively an interruption today
Would pay dividends in days to come.
They walked together to a small wooden locker
Down near the edge of the track.
Releasing the latch, Giuseppi revealed
The tools of his trade inside the cabinet—
Oils, lotions and salves in dust-caked vials and tubes.

He warmed a small dollop of pungent salve
Between his leathered hands.
In silence and with a surgeon’s precision,
He pulled and pushed into the belly of the muscle.
Alternately using the edges of
Thumbs, knuckles, palms and finger tips,
He teased out the hidden pain lying
Deep inside, waiting to be exposed.
At first skeptical and wishing for its end,
The runner soon relished this
Trackside treatment, eager for more
As the stabbing pain subsided
With each smooth stroke.
Inside fifteen minutes,
The lone spectator was done.

Then, just as quickly and quietly
He was gone—as if he had never been—
And would never be seen again.
Only the memory of his image
And his handiwork remained
As an ever present reminder
Of the man they called Giuseppi….

Poem A Day Challenge for April 12

April 12—And just like that, we're already on to our second "Two for Tuesday" prompt of the challenge. I know this is a prompt that some poets have been craving, while others probably not so much. Regardless, I did this one on Tuesday to provide some options:

1. Write a form poem. This could be a sonnet, pantoum, lune, or even something as sinister as a--dare I say it--sestina. If you need a list of poetic forms and there rules, click here.

2. Write an anti-form poem. Just as there are poets who love playing with forms, there are poets who think they are the worst thing ever. That's fine. Express (in either free verse or a prose poem) your feelings on writing in traditional forms.

On Formlessness
By Bill Kirk

Could it be some days the poetry
Will be less well formed than others?
I’d have to say, it’s true.
Tonight, my brain itself is a formless blob.
Thus any attempt at poetic form
Will likely have scant chance at success.

Yet, I suppose the very capture of
Any thought or idea takes on
A certain structure, even if drawn
From wordless mush—much as
An artist’s blank canvass will
Eventually move toward an
Expression of artistic form,
Even if very sketchy.

Far be it for me to
Squeeze, mold or force
These words into a shape
They have no interest in taking.
Perhaps words on a page
Will somehow find their natural form
Much as water seeks its own level.
Might formelessness be its own reward?

Poem For A Day Challenge for April 11

April 11— For today's prompt, take the phrase "Maybe (blank);" replace the blank with a word or phrase; make the new phrase the title of your poem; and then, write the poem.


Maybe This Isn’t Such A Good Idea
By Bill Kirk

Have you ever noticed how
All through the day we are faced
With decision points—large and small.
Should we do this thing or that?
Should we go this way or that?
Why not push on, full steam ahead?
After all, we’re on such a roll,
And wouldn’t it be a shame
To lose our momentum?

On the other hand,
We could simply stop—everything—
And allow ourselves in that moment,
That pause-for-a-breath moment,
To think, maybe this isn’t
Such a good idea after all.

That’s not to say we won’t do it anyway.
But if your gut is giving you pause
And your brain is holding open the possibility
Of considering an alternate course,
Mightn’t it be worth a wondering wait?
And could giving in to a second thought
Be a rare golden opportunity
Just waiting to be tapped?
Something to think about, no?

Then, again, an argument could be made
That trading prudence for the pay off
Gained from a little risk taking
Might be worth the price.
But, to paraphrase, whether something
Is a good idea or not, is ultimately all in the risk….

Poem A Day Challenge for April 10

April 10—For today's prompt, write a never again poem. Maybe you'll never again fall in love or never again tell a lie. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll never again not write a sestina.(Like that? It's a double negative.)

N’er again will yester be—
That time is now behind us.
Yet, perhaps in memory,
Its ghost may come and find us.

Will it ask us once again
Those questions long avoided—
Scraping wounds until our pain
Has fully been exploited?

Or will it probe a different trace,
And would our path be altered?
Had we run a different race,
Would we have won or faltered?

Truth be told, as life unfolds,
Despite how well we’ve striven,
Faith will shape what each life holds,
For we just get what’s given.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 9

For today's prompt, write a time of day poem. In fact, make the title of your poem the time of day. For instance, "5:54 a.m.," 2:23 p.m.," "Midnight," etc. Then, write your poem. Of course, different things happen at different times of day. So have fun with it.

4:15 P.M.
By Bill Kirk

What a miserable
Time of day 4:15 p.m. is.
It’s in that limbo time
Between lunch and dinner
When it’s too late for
A mid-afternoon snack,
Yet the hungries are on the move.

You can feel them slithering around
Somewhere down in the bowel.
And then the sounds start—
Just a slight nagging at first,
Becoming more urgent
As they change from a quiet rrreeee-errrr
To a full blown grrr-ow-w-w-l.

For kids in school, let’s face it.
They are on the food clock
As soon as the last bell has sounded.
If they are quick about it,
And maintain their focus,
They will manage to get themselves
Home in time to do some grubbing
Before the 4:15 p.m. snack curfew strikes
And the time for grubbing is gone.

With all that late afternoon suffering,
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist
To figure out America is clearly
Out of touch with global gustatory reality.
Could there be any other explanation why
4:15 p.m. just happens to be time for tea?
There’s little doubt it is a
Pure survival strategy designed
To get them past humankind’s
Most vulnerable point in the day.
Why, tossing all that tea into the harbor
Those many years ago may have
Inadvertently put us on a
Terminal trajectory to our own doom.

Personally, I’m not a great fan of
Tea and crumpets but I must concede,
Crumpets trump cramps no matter the time
But especially at 4:15 p.m.

And don’t get me started on
Daylight Savings Time

Poem A Day Challenge For April 7

April 7—For today's prompt, write a "what if" poem. It could be a "what if" from the past, present or future.

What If?
By Bill Kirk

To ask “What if?” implies
A certain choice, does it not?
Do we dwell on past events,
Wondering what might have happened “if”?
Or is time better spent turning our “what ifs”
Toward the future where hope still resides?

For what are the chances
Of predicting a different outcome,
Had we chosen a different path?
What if we had been given different gifts?
Would any one thing done differently,
Have made all the rest the best?
Or would results have been unkinder yet?
How could we possibly know for sure?

And what of decisions made today?
Are our predictive powers any better?
Or might applying lessons learned from past mistakes
Simply make us better guessers?
And what of the cards we’re dealt?
Life context provides a rich field of “what ifs” to harvest—
Divergent pathways in the woods, awaiting our next steps.

For me, color blindness may have been my salvation.
If I were to discern a different color palette,
What are the chances I would be writing this poem—
Or celebrating my wife’s birthday today?
What will you do with your set of unique circumstances?
Will you follow a lemonade dream?
Or do you relish your lemon drizzled over grilled salmon?
Same juice, different use.

What’s in your bracket?
And how will you give voice to your choice?

Poem A Day Challenge For April 6

April 6—For today's prompt, take the phrase "Don't (blank), (blank);" replace the blanks with a word or phrase; use the new phrase as the title of your poem; and then, write your poem. Some possible titles might include: "Don't walk, run," "Don't fight, dance," "Don't turn around, they're right behind you," or whatever else you can think to create.

Don’t Say Won’t. Say Do
By Bill Kirk

Just thinking DON’T is such a drag—
It’s nothing but a frowner.
For DON’Ts won’t end up in a smile
Because a DON’T’s a downer.

It doesn’t matter if a DON’T
Is practiced in the present,
For even if said here or now,
A DON'T is hardly pleasant.

But even DON’Ts from yesterday
Won’t generate much action.
An old DON’T—just a DIDN’T then—
Still gives no satisfaction.

Now, if a DON’T still later on
Is what you are intending,
That future DON’T becomes a WON’T—
A DON’T that’s merely trending.

And if you might not do a thing,
The “might” makes WON’T a “WOULDN’T.”
To be polite about your WON’T,
You must insist, “I COULDN’T!”

Yes, DON’Ts abound in all their forms,
From SHOULDN’T, MUSTN’T, SHAN’T.
And if we listened to them all,
We might just think, “I CAN’T!”

So, when you’re asked to give advice,
Think what you’d like to hear.
If you were in another’s shoes.
What word would you hold dear?

Just one small word will say it all.
Two letters and you’re through!
You WON’T get far with Mister DON’T.
So DON’T say “WON’T.” Say “DO”.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 5

April 5—For today's prompt, do one of the following:

1. Write a goofy poem.
2. Write a serious poem.

(Note: This one could go either way---you choose.)

Lament To My Absent Muse
By Bill Kirk

It’s dark and cold at 4 a.m.
Yet I can hardly sleep.
Instead of writing poetry
I should be counting sheep.

For truth be told, this rhyme’s gone cold—
My poem is a flop.
No matter what I try to write,
My brain keeps yelling “Stop!”

Oh! What the heck. I think I’ll quit,
And leave my letters lost.
This search for words is getting old
It’s time this tome is tossed.

So, wrinkling up this scribbly page,
I’ll turn off every light.
If dribbly doodle’s all I’ve got,
It’s time to say good night.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 4

April 4—pick a type of person and write a poem about him or her. To help set the scene, you may want to title your poem as who the type of person is. For instance, you could write a poem titled "Firefighter," "Cynic," "Optimist," "Teacher," "2-year-old," etc. The list is endless.

The Drummer
By Bill Kirk

The drummer stands alone, waiting.
Poised and ready, his sticks hover above skins
Stretched taught over their frames—
Simple implements await his bidding.
Then, as if some solitary nuclear clock
Finally emits its primordial pulse,
The first strike of stick against skin
Signals life through action.

Tak! Tak! Tak! Tak!
Vibrations scream a one-note staccato—
R-r-r-racketa! T-t-t-tacketa! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Ripples push the sound barrier,
Seemingly broken in an instant
On the surface of the drum’s head—
Its micrometric amplitude
Hardly perceptible to the human eye.

The drummer calls his cadence without speaking
Save for the insistent sound spreading in ripples
From his drum’s core—through the rest of the
Drum corps on the floor around him.
His fellow drummers respond in kind with their first step,
And another and another still—
They answer the incessant urge to move.
Then in quick succession, they pick up the beat—
Accepting it as their own, completely owning the next strike,
And the next,
And the next,
And the next.
Crisp. Clear. United.

The very essence of integrity—One cadence. One team. One line.

The drummer carries the corporal beat—the rhythm of life.
Yet where does it come from and what does it mean?
Certainly the merging of rhythm, sound and intensity
Is more than mere technique.
Might there not be a subtle nuance
That defines the drummer’s very nature?
Could it be the soul’s search for perfect resonance?
And how does one discern such things?
Indeed, might drumming not be considered a metaphor for life?
The call of the distant drummer
Tapping out his cadence
And hoping it will be heard, headed and followed.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The pulse of life beckons loudly—
Not wanting to end but having to.
In one beat, the performance is over.
Rejoice and be glad in it.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 3

April 3—Write a poem in which you imagine the world without you. The world could be a much worse place, pretty much the same, or even better. Anyway, it's interesting to contemplate our individual contributions to this planet in ways small and large. 

Were I Not Here 

By Bill Kirk 

Were I not here, 

The lawn might be mowed, 

The weeds would be whacked and 

The bare window sill would already be primed and painted. 

Were I not here, 

The blown down back fence would be replaced, 

The crack in the driveway would be patched and 

The front door latch would work and not stick. 

Were I not here, 

The ivy would not have overtaken the side yard, 

There’d be no birds nesting in the attic and 

The perilously leaning pine would be long gone. 

Were I not here, 

The taxes would be done before April 14, 

There might be more money for vacations and 

There’d be less money needed for life insurance, 

But were I not here, there would also be 

Fewer cups of coffee at bedside each morning, 

Fewer lunches made each work day, 

Fewer omelets cooked each Sunday after church, 

Fewer miles run for the pure pleasure of it, 

Fewer pick-ups after school, 

Fewer haircuts at Grandpa’s house, 

Fewer children’s rhymes written and read, 

Fewer reminders about Scout meetings, 

Fewer camping trips with the old man, 

Fewer holiday turkeys cooked and carved, 

Fewer New Year’s Day black eye peas for good luck and 

Fewer kisses goodnight. 

So, all things considered, 

Consider me here.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 2

April 2—The prompt for day 2 is to write a postcard poem. Make it brief and communicate what it is like where you are. Also, make it personal. 

Postcard Wishes 

By Bill Kirk 

Just got to my “room”. 

There are windows galore— 

On all sides, in fact, 

From ceiling to floor. 

A post at each corner, 

In the middle, a mast; 

We’ll tie off our hammocks 

Oh, wow! What a blast! 

We’ll sleep in “plein aire”— 

A canopy above. 

We four happy strangers— 

Hey! What's up with the shove!? 

What do you mean, 

Those "shoves" are a gale 

And our very large tent 

Is now a large sail? 

You’ve got to be kidding! 

Pack up my gear? 

Vacation is over? 

Wish I weren’t here....